Chapter 2: Midnight Betrayal

In the middle of the night, Arjun called me. His voice was weak, pleading, the kind of tone that could melt even the hardest heart. "Priya... I’ve entered adulthood... I need you... please help me."

His words tumbled out, barely above a whisper, trembling with desperation. The sound of his voice—so familiar, so changed—sent shivers down my spine. For a moment, I forgot to breathe.

Arjun had told me before: shapeshifters could only be intimate with their partners after entering adulthood. The process was painful—restless, burning, a suffering only their partner could soothe, or else their bodies might never recover. I remembered him on the old garden swing, ears drooping, eyes searching the stars. "Priya, it’s not like in movies. For us, adulthood is painful. Unless our partner helps us, we can get... lost. Forever." I’d thought he was just being dramatic, but the longing in his eyes had always left me uneasy.

That memory flashed again—Arjun’s dark, shining eyes searching my face, as if reading our futures. It left a strange ache in my chest, like a song you can’t forget.

I took it as a subtle confession, and agreed sweetly, feeling fate nudge us together. Even Amma had teased me that night—"Priya, your cheeks are glowing! Kuch khaas baat hai kya?" I’d just smiled, hiding my secret like a stolen sweet.

Now, hearing his plea, my heart squeezed. I quickly asked for his location, ready to run to him at once. My excitement spilled into my message—"Where are you? I’ll come right away!" My hands trembled as I typed, forgetting even my slippers in the rush.

But Arjun’s reply made me pause. He was at a bar in Andheri.

I frowned. Arjun, the same boy who once got tipsy on Frooti at our class picnic, now at a bar? Something felt off, but adulthood changes people, na?

I couldn’t help myself—"Why are you still at a bar so late?" Maybe my voice came out sharper than I meant. Who goes to a bar when they’re suffering?

He paused, then suddenly started crying. "Priya, please come quickly, I feel terrible, Priya... I’m so uncomfortable..." His sobs were raw, pitiful. All my irritation vanished; he sounded so alone, like the world was falling apart around him.

I rushed to pack my things, tossing a shawl over my salwar, stuffing my phone and Parle-G biscuits in my bag. Amma and Papa slept soundly; I scribbled a note—"Friend needs help, don’t worry"—and stuck it on the fridge.

Suddenly, my old Samsung vibrated twice, then died. "Arey, kya timing hai," I grumbled, rushing back to check. But the message wasn’t from Arjun. My heart skipped—a message from Kunal? Why would he text me now?

The familiar Gateway of India contact photo gave me a pang of guilt. Kunal: "Sorry, do you have time now? Can you help me with something? It’s urgent."

His messages were short, clipped—so Kunal. Always so proper, so restrained. The word "urgent" made my stomach twist. It was past midnight. Did he really want me to come over now?

The ceiling fan hummed overhead as I shook off a sense of foreboding. "Yeh bhi na," I muttered. "Drama hi hai." I ignored Kunal’s message, booked an auto, and headed to the bar. The app showed a three-minute wait. I chewed my lip, foot tapping, eyes darting between my silent phone and the dark street. Still, I didn’t reply to Kunal. If it was really important, he’d call, na?

Kunal didn’t message again. I muttered to myself, "Haan haan, bahut urgent tha. Typical Kunal—ek message bheja, fir chup. Boys, I tell you." I knew he just wanted my attention, like always: "Priya, come play cricket," "Priya, look at this drawing," "Priya, can I sit with you?" Always needy, always quiet. It used to irritate me—now, I didn’t even know what to feel.

The auto ride was a blur of sodium lights and the smell of rain on hot concrete. The auto-wallah played old Kishore Kumar songs, humming along while I stared out, chewing my nails. As we zipped through the nearly empty streets, a WhatsApp ping flashed—a missed call from Amma. My heart squeezed. Typical, I thought, Amma’s sixth sense never fails. I quickly texted her, "Late night study group, will be back soon. Love you."

Thanking the driver, I hurried inside the bar, only to realize Arjun hadn’t given me a table number. The place was dim, crowded, thick with the scent of whisky and frying snacks. Waiters dodged between tables, and someone was belting out a Bollywood remix at the far end. I clutched my bag tighter, adjusting my dupatta across my chest in that Mumbai-girl way—half shield, half armour.

Ignoring the leering from a couple of drunk men, I pulled out my phone to message Arjun. "Arjun, where are you?" I typed as the thick carpet muffled my footsteps.

A familiar voice drifted from a private lounge with the door slightly ajar. The conversation floated out—half-muffled, but clear as a slap.

"Just watch, between me and Kunal, Priya will definitely choose me. What use is Kunal’s capability? As long as I keep Priya under my thumb, he’ll always be my defeated rival."

I froze, every muscle locked. My entire body turned cold. For a second, I couldn’t breathe. Was I imagining things? I crept closer, careful not to make a sound.

What did he just say? Under his thumb? Defeated rival? The words echoed, bitter as neem.

A rough, tapori voice replied, "Haan, tum fox log toh gifted ho. Priya ko pasand nahi karta phir bhi usko nachata rehta hai. Lekin is baar zyada ho gaya. Agar asura bina partner ke adulthood mein gaya toh mar bhi sakta hai. Ab tu ne Priya ko yahaan phasa diya, kuch ho gaya toh kaun sambhalega?"

Their words landed like blows. I shrank into the shadows, hardly daring to breathe. I clutched my dupatta, knuckles white, my mind spinning. Did asuras have adulthood periods too? How could I not know something so important about Kunal?

Another sneering voice: "Kya darna? Time aane par Priya ko blame de dena. Kya destined partner? Sirf asuraon ko aise gande rishte lagte hain—mar bhi jaaye toh accha hai..."

A sharp pain shot through my chest. It was Arjun again—his voice so different, so ugly. Suddenly I was eleven again, hearing the mean kids at school calling me "behenji," pretending not to care. My hand hovered above the lounge door, trembling. I wanted to barge in, to scream, but my feet refused to move. All I could do was stand there, shaking with rage and disbelief.

Arjun... what are you talking about? My voice was only a whisper in my head, drowned by the roaring of my heart. How could I have been so blind?